


Of Fecund Flame

by auntiegravity



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22594045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auntiegravity/pseuds/auntiegravity
Summary: “Right. Good,” Jaskier chuckled nervously, “I mean, what’s a little mutual masturbation between old friends?”In which Geralt is hired to collect a rare venom, valued for its aphrodisiac properties, on behalf of a newly-wed couple. He brings Jaskier along for accompaniment.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 42
Kudos: 688





	Of Fecund Flame

“How much further? We’ve been walking for hours –”

“ _An_ hour,” Geralt corrected.

Not really listening, Jaskier continued, “ah, how my limbs ache, buffeted by the sweet sting of the eastern gales! How the frigid earth beckons us to her tender bosom…” As he began to lapse into song, Geralt levelled a withering glare at him.

“Keep singing and I’ll break that fucking lute over your head.”

Jaskier frowned. “Someone’s grumpy – or, at least, more than usual,”

“We should be well within her hunting grounds by now,” Geralt replied begrudgingly, if only to stop Jaskier’s chattering.

“Right. Good. Yeah,” Jaskier stuttered, “Not to interfere with your…” he paused, gesturing wildly, “or anything, but should I – Oh, I don’t know – do anything?”

“Shut up.”

Indignant, Jaskier opened his mouth as if to retort but, deciding that nothing he could say would sufficiently irritate Geralt, he opted instead to strum furiously at his lute, maintaining pointed eye contact all the while.

Geralt bristled, his scowl somehow more severe than usual. He reached for Jaskier’s lute but before he was able to reduce it to firewood, a hollow crack echoed out through the canopy. The pair froze.

“Fuck.”

A low hiss rumbled throughout the clearing from the undergrowth, followed by the flicker of a thin, forked tongue.

“Your fucking screeching gave us away!” Geralt spat, eyes unflinchingly trained on the form rising from the dead leaves.

Jaskier spluttered, too frightened to be truly offended. “Take that back!”

A large, scaled head rose from the thicket, its voracious, slit pupils were dilated. Then, the serpent paused, swaying gently as it considered the situation. Geralt held his breath.

Overhead, the caw of a sparrowhawk rang out, shattering the silence. Jolted, the beast darted for them.

The serpent’s body undulated across the forest floor, weaving between the sere beech trees; its metallic scales glinting in the evening sun.

As it drew nearer, the beast’s jaw fell open wide, revealing a pair of pointed fangs like sharpened alabaster. A shiver of terror ran through Jaskier’s core.

“Geralt!” Jaskier cried. “You said we were hunting worms!”

Geralt paused, confused by the bard’s surprise. Then, realisation dawned across his features, which just as soon clouded over into a grimace.

“Not ‘worms’ – a wyrm,” Geralt grunted, pointing matter-of-factly to the serpent barrelling towards them.

“Ah, yes, of course. Obviously. My mistake. Thanks for clearing that up.”

“Why the fuck would I hunt worms?”

“Why the fuck would you hunt that thing!?” Jaskier shrieked, exasperation welling in his voice.

“For coin.”

“Whatever they’re paying you, it’s not enough.”

“It never is,” Geralt grumbled, adjusting his stance, braced for the imminent fight.

As the wyrm approached, its head reared upward, muscles taut and poised to strike; its barbed tail cracked like a whip, carrying enough force to splinter a tree.

“Stand clear,” Geralt shouted, his eyes never faltering from those of the wyrm. Alone, one of its eyes was the size of a human skull; its slit pupil contracted sharply as its prey fell within its sights.

Jaskier retreated backwards, unable to tear his gaze from the serpent before him. He stumbled, his heel catching on an exposed root, and fell to the sodden earth, landing on his hands.

“Fuck.”

For a pregnant moment, the wyrm stilled, its gaze levelled on Jaskier who now lay sprawled on the forest floor, breath caught in his throat. Geralt’s gaze darted between the two, unsure whether to sprint for Jaskier or the wyrm.

Suddenly, the wyrm lurched for Jaskier, ensnaring him in a vice-like grip. His mouth fell open in a silent scream as the air was forced from his lungs by the suffocating crush of the serpent’s coiled body.

“Jaskier!” He yelled, darting for the serpent.

Geralt’s swords chinked against the wyrm’s metallic scales, unable even to dint its armour. Summoning all his force, Geralt barred his teeth and swung again, aiming behind the head. Again, the blade rebounded, a loud clang reverberated through the clearing.

Geralt withdrew, cursing. Keenly aware that, even in optimistic terms, Jaskier had only minutes left. Geralt’s mind raced: _Think_.

An idea came to mind, but it was more a last resort than a coherent strategy. Grimacing, Geralt steadied himself. This would have to do.

Barring his teeth, Geralt charged into the serpent’s gaping maw and plunged his blade up to the hilt through the fleshy roof of the wyrm’s mouth. Viscous yellow blood began to ooze from the gash as the beast convulsed, writhing and twisting in agony. Its hissing swelled to a pitched crescendo, squealing as its body thrashed spasmodically against the forest floor, its tail whipping violently against the splintering trees.

One last dying shudder ran through its carcass before, at last, the wyrm was dead. Its body, once taut as a spring, fell limp to the sodden earth, unfurling to release slightly squished Jaskier from its bind.

Collapsing on his front, Jaskier gasped for breath, desperately trying to fill his aching lungs.

“That was … fun,” he wheezed, his voice painfully hoarse.

Geralt exhaled deeply as the tension bled from his shoulders, relieved his gamble had been a successful one.

It was only once the adrenaline had drained from his blood, and once the beating of his heart had faded in his ears, that Geralt felt warm liquid seep down his arm: one of the serpent’s fangs had pierced his armour, puncturing his left shoulder.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Jaskier stumbled to his feet, his knees wobbling like a fawn’s, and made his way over to Geralt.

“Ah,” he sighed, his eyes falling to Geralt’s shoulder, “you seem to be bleeding profusely. Why do you never just bleed ‘a little bit’ or ‘not at all’? There are no half measures with you.”

“I’ll live,” Geralt grunted.

Kneeling before the serpent’s wide mouth, Geralt set to work, removing a glass vial from his pack and pressing it to the wyrm’s fangs. Slowly, the vial filled with a milky venom. Holding it to the sun, Geralt swirled the cloudy white liquid, studying its viscosity.

“That looks like –” Jaskier fell silent under Geralt’s withering glare. “What in the gods is it?”

“An aphrodisiac – a powerful one.”

“Oh, fun,” Jaskier said, interest piqued.

Geralt scowled, not bothering to reply.

After a minute of silence, Jaskier pressed on, not wanting to drop the topic: “I wasn’t aware that Witchers suffered from such – uh – somatic afflictions.”

Geralt shot him a look capable of piercing flesh. “This,” he ground out between gritted teeth, “was requested by my employer.”

“Ah,” Jaskier chuckled, “and which poor bastard might that be? Oh, don’t tell me: it’s the Count de Mazur, isn’t it? Or the Duke Lipska?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, “it was the Lady Salomea who hired me.”

“Oh?” Jaskier drawled, pleasantly scandalised.

Geralt shook his head. “For her new husband, Count Taragos – a decrepit fool, too weak to raise even a sword, let alone his cock.”

Recognising the name, Jaskier mused, “an aphrodisiac may remedy a limp dick, but it will do little to fix a limp wrist.”

Bards were paid in coin but they earned their living in rumours and while Jaskier was always short on coin, his knowledge of current affairs, most often the sexual variety, was archival.

“As long as I receive my coin, it is none of my concern whether Lady Salomea gets fucked – by her husband or otherwise.”

“Wait,” Jaskier tensed, “weren’t you bitten? Doesn’t that mean –” His eyes flickered down to Geralt’s crotch, staring intently as if it were about to burst forth from his trousers.

“I’m a Witcher,” Geralt deadpanned, resisting the urge to cover himself.

“So?” Jaskier shrugged, “are Witchers immune to such mundane afflictions as erections? Come to think of it, you did always strike me as a frigid bunch.”

Geralt grunted, getting to his feet, “I’m immune to venom – or, at least, more resistant than the likes of you.”

Jaskier was enjoying this too much, Geralt thought. He had to put an end to it. “Let’s go. We’re late. We are expected at sundown before the feast starts.”

Sensing his potential earnings were lessening by the minute, Jaskier fell silent, hastening after Geralt towards the castle-fortress.

***

Night had fallen long before the castle came into sight. The limestone fortress was bathed in the lambent glow of honeyed torchlight, each traceried window a beacon in the desolate black of the winter night. Peals of raucous laughter and song spilled out from the large, wooden gates; in front of which, stood a stout, sour-faced witch, arms akimbo.

“The feast has already commenced,” she snapped. “You’re late.”

“Only fashionably so, I hope,” Jaskier cooed, donning a winsome smile.

Unaffected by Jaskier’s flirting, the woman merely tutted in response before turning brusquely on her heel and hastening towards the castle gates, gesturing for them to follow.

She ushered them through stone corridors paved with loose flagstones, which Jaskier frequently tripped on, towards their shared chambers.

“You’ve kept Her Ladyship waiting long enough,” the sorceress warned, her tone grave. “Once you are properly dressed, she shall receive you in the great hall.”

Levelling one last stern look at them, she took her leave, abandoning them on the threshold.

The two apartments were spacious, connected by a small, wooden door. In each, there was a four-poster bed facing a stone fireplace, its hearth adorned with elaborate carvings; the kindling crackled quietly, filling the room with the pleasant scent of wood smoke.

Tossing Geralt the pouch containing his clothing, Jaskier hurried off into his own chambers to get ready. By anyone else’s standards, Jaskier took an age to dress, in part because he spent so much time studying himself in the mirror. Compared to Geralt, however, they were roughly equal; Geralt rarely ‘dressed’ at all, spending days in the same rancid armour until forced to change by Jaskier. Even then, he did not wear elaborate clothing: he wore only what was necessary.

Jaskier emerged from his chambers sometime later, having changed twice before settling on his current attire. His brocade doublet was a dark puce, metallic threads of golden silk woven into floral patterns adorned the sleeves and back. Underneath, he wore an off-white, linen shirt, its low neckline hanging loosely below his clavicle.

Jaskier’s penchant for garish clothing was an occupational hazard – one Geralt was glad he didn’t share. But every time they attended a ball together, Jaskier, in all his munificence, made sure to bring the most ostentatious items of clothing he owned especially for Geralt.

Fumbling with the ties, Geralt cursed, his fingers too large to be any good at tying delicate lace.

“Here, allow me,” Jaskier offered, enjoying that he could do something Geralt could not.

Rolling his eyes, Geralt grumbled in annoyance as he slowly got to his feet. Jaskier’s hands were nimble and quick, well-practised at tying, or most likely untying, finicky knots.

Geralt shifted uncomfortably. The warmth emanating from Jaskier, his offensive colognes married with the scent of pine needle and winter air, were oppressive – more so than usual. Geralt felt his pulse quicken uncharacteristically, his heartbeat thrumming beneath his ivory skin.

Shit, he thought. The venom was more potent than he had wanted to admit. He tensed his jaw, reining back his senses. He would have to bear the feast, if only for the coin.

“There,” Jaskier smiled, content with his handiwork, “what would you do without me?”

“Better.”

“Charming.” Jaskier returned to dressing himself, adjusting the final accoutrements of his own outfit. Once he had finished, he gestured to Geralt.

“How do I look?” Lifting his arms, Jaskier spun on one heel. “Lavish? Regal? Opulent?”

“Like a star-spangled whore.”

“Ah, Geralt, you’ll make me blush,” Jaskier mock-swooned. “Have you ever considered a change of profession? Your eloquence is wasted as a Witcher – you’d make a better bard.”

“Better than you?” Geralt humoured him.

Jaskier barked out a laugh. “I’d like to see you try. By all means, say the word and I’ll lend you my lute so you can serenade the courtiers tonight. Now that would be a night to remember: cover thine ears lest the white wolf’s howl deafen you all!”

Geralt thumped him over the back of the head as Jaskier let out a low chuckle.

“Shall we?” He asked, holding the door ajar with his foot as he bowed theatrically. “A lord’s libido hangs in the balance, after all.”

***

As they entered the great hall from the antechamber, the colour drained from Jaskier’s face, his lips grew taut. Geralt glanced over his rigid form before turning his gaze back to the festivities. “How many of your jilted lovers are in this room?”

“Maybe one or two,” Jaskier mused.

“Or seven?”

“Probably nine.”

“Hm.”

The oak-panelled hall was lined with stained glass windows, each adorned with elaborate stone traceries. Pendent from the vaulted ceiling was wrought iron chandeliers which bathed the long, mahogany tables in the subdued, amber glow of warm candlelight. The hall had several alcoves, curtained behind embroidered veils of tapestry, and, to the left, a small balcony fenced with ornamental parapets, overlooking the rugged cliff faces of the snow-topped mountains.

The hall was stuffy; already the smell of spilt wine and odoriferous gentry had begun to mingle. At the high table, draped in a fur-lined mantel, sat Lady Salomea, presiding coolly over the festivities with the eyes of a hawk.

“Ah, the guests of honour,” She drawled, tongue-in-cheek, as she beckoned them to approach. “I half-wagered that the two of you would be deliquescing in some poor snake’s stomach about now. What kept you?”

“The poor snake,” Geralt answered brusquely, offering her the vial of venom in attestation.

Her pursed lips blossomed into a wide, vermillion grin, her eyes, wide and voracious, gleamed as she caught sight of her boon. She descended from the high table, her mantle billowing out in pleats behind her as she strode towards Geralt.

Snatching the vial from him, she inspected it, drumming her talon-like nails contentedly against the glass. Deeming it acceptable, Salomea gestured to a servant. “Give the Witcher his hard-earned coin.”

Turning her attention back to Jaskier and Geralt, she said, “Gentlemen, by way of thanks, I implore you: drink to your heart’s content – or to your liver’s demise, whichever comes first.”

A portentous smile spread across Geralt’s features, hoping an obscene amount of alcohol would dull the senses. “I intend to.”

Jaskier wasted no time; he set to work immediately, weaving among the gentry, parting the crowd with the neck of his lute. As he swanned past noblewomen, he would give them a bawdy wink and linger briefly before hastily moving on as their husbands began to bristle.

If he felt that his ballad was fading into the ambience, or that his audience was not throwing enough coin, he would climb up onto one of the long, mahogany tables and stride along it as if it were a catwalk, knocking over crystal carafes and cornucopias of fruit with the tip of his leather shoes.

Charmed by his histrionics, noblewomen laughed haughtily behind their ornamental fans, hiding the faint dusting of pink blush which warmed their cheeks.

Jaskier’s knew that his success as a bard was due only in part to his musical talents, the rest could be accredited to several casks of red wine, cunningly and constantly administered to noblemen so that their cups were never empty. The men, already sufficiently plied with enough alcohol to drown a large horse, bellowed deep peals of raucous laughter as they swayed and stumbled in time to Jaskier’s song, blissfully adrift in the flow of the festivities.

Geralt looked on from the periphery, skulking in the long shadows cast by the tapestry curtains, swirling draught ale in his cup. From his vantage, he could keep watch over Jaskier’s antics, undisturbed by the throes of the night’s celebrations.

Currently, Jaskier had draped himself on the edge of a long table and was serenading the Lady Salomea, strumming his lute in long, fluid strokes. As he finished his ballad, he bowed exaggeratedly, a cocksure look to his eye. Then he winked and swept away into another song.

As she retreated away from the throng towards Geralt, Salomea burst into peals of laughter, flattered by Jaskier’s theatrics. “That barker of yours is quite fetching – such a way with words,” she smiled, a coy glint to her eye, “and with women.”

“He’ll fuck anything with a pulse,” Geralt grunted, taking another swig from his cup.

Salomea suppressed a chuckle into her bronze chalice; the cup was engraved with interlocking runes with large gemstones embedded into it.

“So,” she began, the corners of her mouth turning upward into a wide grin, “you’re out of the running?”

Geralt parted his lips, half-tempted to retort that he did, in fact, have a pulse, albeit a faint one, but thought better of it, opting instead to reply with a ‘Hm.’

“I haven’t had a young man in quite some time,” she continued, sounding wistful.

“Your husband would prefer it remained that way, I suspect.”

“Indeed – but that’s half the fun, is it not?” Leaving Geralt with a mischievous smile, she returned to the crowd, beckoning languidly for Jaskier to join her.

Geralt scowled. This would not end well.

***

For the remainder of the evening, Geralt lurked near the casks of wine, watching apathetically as the same petty squabbles of the nobility unfolded before him, as they had done time and time again.; men too drunk to stand picking fights with their wife’s lovers, women draped unconscious over the nearest bench, wine glass still in hand. It was blissful chaos.

He had lost sight of Jaskier roughly an hour ago but, somewhere, he could faintly hear the soothing strum of lute strings, meaning that wherever Jaskier was, at least he wasn’t destroying yet another noble’s marriage – unless he had gotten very good at multitasking.

As he regarded the feast absentmindedly, a glint of faint light blinded him, shimmering in his eye’s periphery. Geralt squinted, trying to locate the source: grasped tightly in Jaskier’s hand was Lady Salomea’s bejewelled chalice, the candle light catching like fire on one of the larger rubies.

Nearby, Salmoea lounged on a plush chaise longue, eyes locked intently on Jaskier’s form as he stumbled through the final lyrics of his ballad. Her gaze was voracious, her mouth stretched wide in an eager grin.

Geralt cursed under his breath so that only about five noblewomen near him gasped in horror.

He stormed into the throng. Seizing Jaskier by the forearm midsong, Geralt dragged him into an alcove, swiftly drawing the curtain closed behind them.

“Ah, there you are,” Jaskier slurred, his lips stained purple with wine, “brooding alone in dark corners as usual I see.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned, “you need to leave. Now.”

“Ah-ha,” Jaskier declared triumphantly, “not only are you a killer of beasts but a killer of joy! Never was there a man with such a myriad of talents. Truly. A plethora.” He raised his cup as a mock-toast, swaying drunkenly all the while.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, his grip tightening on Jaskier’s arm, “tell me: who gave you that chalice?”

A coy grin spread across Jaskier’s features, oblivious to Geralt’s concern. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

“No,” Geralt said tersely, “you just fuck and sing about it.”

Jaskier stuttered, scandalised, raising a hand to his chest, feigning indignation. Then, resigning to the fact that he was fooling no one, not least himself, he shrugged in agreement.

“Right. You’ve worn me down. Not that it’s any of your business…” he paused for dramatic effect. Geralt fought the urge to strangle him. “Who else but she blessed with an ethereal beauty, a true muse of the arts: Lady Salomea.”

“You accepted a drink from a woman who I just hand-delivered enough aphrodisiac to raise a dead man’s cock from the grave.”

Jaskier stilled, his jaw slack and expression blank. He opened his mouth as if to defend himself, then, thinking better of it, quickly shut it.

“Perhaps,” he squeaked.

“We’re going. Now.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jaskier stalled, “this night is one of abundance and splendour, of fine wine – and fine women – a night of extravagance, of mead and honey and – ”

“If we don’t leave now, you won’t survive the night,” Geralt grunted. “let’s go.”

“Geralt, come on,” Jaskier pleaded. “How bad could it be?”

Geralt’s grimace was answer enough, sending shivers down Jaskier’s spine. “You’ll be rutting against anything like a deranged mutt in heat – or, at least, more than usual – until your cock is nothing but a bloody stub.”

“Right. Well. Good to know,” stuttered Jaskier, barely stomaching the image, “but the crowd are generous tonight, there’s coin to be had, women to be romanced.”

Resigned to the fact that Jaskier would not leave willingly, Geralt’s eyes narrowed, flitting up and down Jaskier’s form. He sighed and took a step closer, knees parted slightly. Realisation dawning, Jaskier grew rigid, his eyes wide.

“Geralt,” he warned, voice trembling, “do not –!”

A low grunt rumbled in Geralt’s throat. Holding Jaskier fast by the waist, Geralt hoisted him over his shoulder in one swift movement.

“Unhand me, you –!” Jaskier yelped, descending into histrionics, “at least spare a man his dignity.”

“I would – if you had any,” Geralt grunted.

Jaskier kicked his legs, straining to unbalance Geralt and regain his footing. He managed to dislodge Geralt’s grip with his writhing when a firm pat on the bum pushed him securely back over Geralt’s shoulder, the hand lingering for longer than was necessary.

Jaskier wound his fists into Geralt’s doublet, not wanting to fall, unintentionally pressing his burgeoning erection into Geralt’s shoulder.

“Hm.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jaskier ground out, ears burning.

With Jaskier over his shoulder, Geralt slid out from behind the curtained alcove, not as subtly as he would have liked, catching the eyes of several drunken noblemen in the process.

Geralt steeled his expression. “Too much ale,” he explained gruffly. At that, the noblemen descended into fits of laughter, jeering as Jaskier was carried, kicking, from the hall.

Once they were free of the crowd, Geralt began a brisk walk, jostling his passenger through the twists and turns of the labyrinthine castle back to their chambers. His hands otherwise occupied, Geralt placed his foot firmly in the centre of their chamber door, kicking it open in one swift movement.

Approaching the four-poster bed, Geralt drew the silk curtain and unceremoniously dumped his passenger from a height onto the plush mattress.

Bouncing as he landed, Jaskier scrambled to compose himself, struggling to gain traction against the silk bedsheets. Propping himself up on his elbows, Jaskier was struck by an acute sense of powerlessness; at the edge of the bed, Geralt leered down at him, his brow furrowed and stern. His undershirt had come unfastened and now hung loosely from one arm, exposing his wide chest, covered in a thick layer of downy hair. Meanwhile, Jaskier lay, thoroughly dishevelled, sprawled out on the linen as if pinned there by Geralt’s searing gaze.

“Come here,” Geralt ordered, “we need to restrain you before the venom reaches full efficacy.”

A shiver ran down Jaskier’s spine as a twinge of heat stirred in the pit of his stomach; he sincerely hoped that was the venom’s doing.

“I don’t normally go in for that sort of thing,” he chuckled nervously as he retreated to the far side of the double bed.

“Jaskier…” Gerald warned, his voice stern, but Jaskier was intent on evading him. Were this anyone else, Geralt would have gladly left them to their fate; he cursed himself for ever having developed a degree of tenderness for the bard.

As Geralt lumbered onto the bed, the plush mattress dipped beneath his weight, sending Jaskier tumbling into his lap.

Keenly aware of the distance, or lack of, between them, Jaskier quickly sat up, only to come face-to-face with Geralt snarling at him. That stirring of heat in the pit of his stomach was now alight, longing scorched a hole through his heart.

This close, he was overwhelmed by Geralt’s scent, ashen and earthy, mixed with his own lingering on the clothes Geralt had borrowed. The shadow of stubble now gracing Geralt’s jaw appeared all the darker for his ivory locks which fell in unbrushed strands, framing his face. Jaskier bit his lip. He couldn’t resist.

Weaving nimble fingers into Geralt’s long hair, Jaskier gave a sharp tug. Caught off guard, Geralt winced, barring his teeth angrily. The pleased glint of mischief quickly faded from Jaskier’s eyes as Geralt levelled a piercing glare down at him. Jaskier tried to suppress a shudder, unsure whether it was one of fear or anticipation – likely both.

“Try that again,” Geralt growled.

For a second, Jaskier mistook the threat as a dare, the flirtatious look returning to his eye as he half-entertained the idea, more curious than cautious.

Before he had the chance, Geralt seized his wrists in a firm grip and flipped him over, pinning him flush against the mattress. Prostrated beneath Geralt’s weight, Jaskier writhed, straining to break free of his vice-like grip.

Unable to move his hands, Jaskier ground his knees into the plush bedding, attempting to dislodge Geralt. Arching his back, he thrust his hips upward with some force, directly into Geralt’s crotch.

“Oh,” Jaskier froze, his eyes grew wide, “is that a sword or –”

“You’ll wish it was a sword if you finish that fucking joke,” Geralt ground out, his grip tightening.

“On second thought,” Jaskier mused, squirming, “it feels more like a penknife.”

With his free hand, Geralt planted his palm against the crown of Jaskier’s head and firmly pushed his face into the mattress.

Jaskier continued to thrash beneath him, his shouting muffled by a heap of white cotton pillows. After a minute, Geralt relented, releasing the bard from his grip.

Jaskier rolled onto his back and inhaled theatrically, clutching his chest as he flared his nostrils. “If I had known you enjoyed wrestling things into submission quite this much, I’d have stopped following you about years ago. That poor wyrm,” he tutted.

“I’m not –” Geralt began to defend himself before breaking off in a frustrated sigh. “The venom was more potent than expected,” he admitted begrudgingly.

Jaskier fell silent. As he began to process the information, his face lit up, pleasantly scandalised.

“Oh, I see,” he teased, a coy grin spread across his flushed features, “this was all some dastardly scheme of yours to have your way with me, you brute.”

Geralt’s scoffed, “most of the Four Kingdoms have had their way with you and not one of them had need of a scheme nor an aphrodisiac to do it.”

“Just what are you insinuating? That I am some common whore?” Jaskier spluttered, face aghast, “I am a poet who just _happens_ to draw artistic inspiration from many a romantic muse. Its the nature of the profession.”

“I have more respect for the whore than I do the poet,” Geralt let out a low chuckle, “whores fuck for coin. What does your rutting earn you? Another Lord out for your blood – or your balls.”

“Concerned for my balls now, are we?”

Geralt’s scowl deepened, “they’re more trouble than they’re worth – better to cut them off now. Might relieve the venom’s effects.” A sinister smile blossomed across his features.

Jaskier gulped, scrambling back on his hands until his back collided with the headboard. “Right. Well. If you’re so keen to relieve the venom’s effects, you can start by lobbing off your own before your ridiculously tight trousers sever blood flow to it. I mean, really? It’s obscene.”

Geralt did not need to glance down to know that Jaskier was right but he did so anyway. He could feel the blood pulsing against the fastenings of his trousers, fabric constricting flesh. Suddenly more aware of the chafing, he shifted his weight.

Returning his gaze to Jaskier, whose legs splayed out on the bedding at odd angles, his eyes fell involuntarily on his crotch, his erection straining painfully against the pattered material of his trouser leg. Following Geralt’s gaze, Jaskier’s hands shot to cover himself as he coughed pointedly, his face burning.

“Had your eyeful yet?”

Absentmindedly, Geralt felt that he should meet Jaskier’s accusing glare, but he could not tear his gaze from Jaskier’s hands, clutched protectively over his crotch. He felt himself twitch against his trouser-front. _Shit._

At that, he looked up to meet Jaskier’s gaze only to find them roaming his own body, his eyes wide and voracious.

“Jaskier …” he warned, though there was no real force behind it.

Jolted back to reality, Jaskier’s eyes flickered to meet his own, his lips parted slightly.; he looked dazed.

“Theoretically …” Jaskier began slowly, shifting towards Geralt

“Jaskier –”

“No, no. Listen. _Theoretically,_ if we were to …” Jaskier made a series of frantic and crude gestures, “that would help to, um, relieve the, uh, tension somewhat?”

“Theoretically,” Geralt glowered. “Yes.”

“Right. Good,” Jaskier chuckled nervously, “I mean, what’s a little mutual masturbation between old friends?”

Furrowing his brow, Geralt fell silent for a minute. He knew it was more a crude joke than a suggestion, sufficiently veiled in enough mirth to feign plausible deniability, and yet at its core beat a heart of true sincerity; it was Jaskier through and through.

Flitting his gaze over Jaskier’s form, rigid and tense, Geralt remembered the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth emanating from him. Geralt inhaled deeply, feeling heat stir in his chest, melting away the last of his resolve.

“Fine.” Geralt said, shrugging off his linen undershirt and casting it aside.

Jaskier froze, his mouth half-open, nonplussed. “What?” He stammered, his voice half an octave higher than usual.

“Hurry up.” Geralt was already untying his trousers’ fastenings. “Before I change my mind.”

A rush of heat flooded Jaskier’s chest as he slowly blinked himself back to reality. “Right. Yea. Yes.”

His body was lagging somewhere several leagues behind his mind which itself was pacing a mile a minute. Shaking with anticipation, his long fingers fumbled at his doublet’s ties but his attention was elsewhere: unflinchingly trained on Geralt as he stood to remove his trousers. Having already unfastened the ties, they fell straight to the chamber floor, followed swiftly by Jaskier’s jaw.

As Geralt turned to face him, Jaskier barely suppressed a gulp, his eyes flitting downwards, almost involuntarily, enticed by the dark trail of coarse hair. The view did nothing to help the shaking in his hands.

Seeing that Jaskier was still fully clothed, Geralt raised an eyebrow, “Second thoughts?”

Jaskier tutted. “Who has time to think twice when you strip as fast as you do? It’s not a race, Geralt.”

The sound of his name on Jaskier’s lips stoked the kindling in the pit of his stomach; a warm rush of pleasure ran through him. Climbing onto the bed, Geralt reared up on his knees, leering down at Jaskier, who still lay fully clothed, sprawled out on the sheets.

“How much do you like this?” Geralt began, running the collar of Jaskier’s doublet between his fingers.

Foreseeing where he was going, Jaskier hastily snatched the lavish material from Geralt’s grip.“As much as it cost which, if you couldn’t tell, was _a lot._ ”

A sinister smile graced Geralt’s lips. Resting his arms either side of Jaskier’s head, Geralt lowered himself until he was pinning the bard, his mouth hovering by Jaskier’s ear. Grasping one of Jaskier’s hands, he led it slowly down between his own legs and held it there. Jaskier’s tensed, blood draining from his face and rushing to his crotch.

Then, in breathy whispers, Geralt asked, “which do you prefer? This - or the doublet?”

With that, any apprehension fettering him vanished, drowned out by the surge of lust which ran through him, leaving Jaskier shivering in its wake.

“I’m sending you the bill,” he replied begrudgingly.

That was all the permission Geralt needed. Positioning his front flush against Jaskier’s back, Geralt reached around, grasping the embroidered doublet. In one swift tug, the fastenings snapped open, the needlework ripping as effortlessly as paper in Geralt’s hands. Before Jaskier had finished shedding the remains of his doublet, Geralt slid his hands beneath the hem of his undershirt, pushing it over Jaskier’s head.

Last were the pants, which Jaskier haphazardly kicked off, any restraint eroded by desperation he felt searing in the pit of his stomach.

Geralt riveted Jaskier flush against his front, holding him fast by the waist with one hand and palming his thigh with the other. Burying his face in Jaskier’s nape, he inhaled deeply, breathing in his scent, mingled with sweat.

Beneath his finger-tips, he could feel Jaskier’s pulse, thrumming like a rabbit’s heart, warmth radiating off him. Distantly, Geralt felt a pang in his own heart: within in his arms, he held Life, such that he had not known himself in an age. Delicate Life, a faint flame dancing atop a candle wick, extinguished by the slightest disturbance. The man he cradled in his arms was just that: ephemeral - something Geralt had long forgotten how to be.

Another twinge strained at his heartstrings: if he could not have it – humanity, life – then he would hold it, if only for a night.

Digging his nails into his pale skin, he left small crescent-shaped indents as he parted Jaskier’s upper thighs and slipped his manhood between them. Geralt’s breath hitched as he was enveloped in Jaskier’s searing heat.

Burying his head in the juncture between Jaskier’s neck and shoulder, Geralt suppressed a groan as he sucked port-stain bruises onto Jaskier’s skin.

Jaskier reached back, weaving his fingers into Geralt’s hair as he kissed his neck, urging him to continue, tugging gently when he felt teeth graze his skin. Jaskier half-enjoyed the warm sensation of stubble scratching at his neck.

Geralt released his vice-like grip on Jaskier’s thigh as he began to run his calloused hands tenderly over Jaskier’s flank towards his upper body. While one hand roamed over Jaskier’s chest, trailing slowly over his ribs to his nipples, the other dipped below Jaskier’s navel, tracing the coarse trail of hair painfully close the base of his cock. Jaskier involuntarily bucked at the touch, his breathing laboured.

Nestled between his thighs, he felt Geralt’s own cock twitch as Geralt let out a low rumble of a groan, his breath hot against Jaskier’s neck.

Gingerly, Geralt’s hand reached for Jaskier’s cock, gripping it at the base, while the other clasped his hip, dragging Jaskier towards him until their bodies lay flush against one another.

Faintly, Jaskier felt his thighs slide against one another, slippery with the gossamer sheen of precum. Looking down at himself, encircled in Geralt’s warm grip, he saw it was slick, clear fluid pearling at the tip. This wouldn’t last long, he thought, but the brightest fires are the first to wane.

“Geralt,” he shuddered, his voice breathy, “be a dear and fucking get on with it.”

Grunting in acknowledgement, Geralt’s grip tightened, beginning tortuously slow rhythm. Squeezing his eyes shut, Jaskier wound his fingers into Geralt’s hair, tugging at the roots, as his hips jolted to meet Geralt’s hand, desperate for friction. He squirmed as a shudder of pleasure ran down his spine. Geralt’s steady strokes were relentless, the rhythm slow and deliberate. At the same time, Geralt bucked his hips spasmodically, his thrusts violent and desperate, leaving Jaskier’s thighs slick with precum and sweat.

Heat pooling in his stomach, Jaskier felt the pleasure mount. Behind him, Geralt’s vice-like grip grew tighter on his left hip; Jaskier felt the faint ache of a fresh bruise beginning to form under the skin. He felt delirious, it was overwhelming: the slap of sweat-slicked skin, the heat of Geralt’s laboured breath, his steadfast grip locking Jaskier in place.

His breath caught in his throat, his body tense, as the pleasure of overstimulation sent white-hot ripples of ecstasy spurting from Jaskier’s cock onto the linen bedsheets; his hips spasmed, writhing with the aftershocks of the orgasm as he dug his teeth into his bottom lip.

Tension bleeding from his muscles, Jaskier went boneless as the final tremors of pleasure racked his body, forcing a breathy groan from his bruised lips, leaving him panting in Geralt’s arms.

Geralt soon followed. Burying his face in Jaskier’s nape, his breath became laboured, his thrusts erratic. Between his thighs, Jaskier felt the twitch of stiff flesh, the swell of pleasure mounting as Geralt dug his nails into Jaskier’s thigh, his grip almost painful.

A moan, deep and guttural, poured from his parted lips as his muscles tensed, racked by pleasure. With one last jolt, he riveted Jaskier flush against him, spilling onto his thighs clamped tightly together. Rolling off Jaskier, Geralt slumped to the bed, drawing his hands up contentedly behind his head as he rested his eyes.

“Ah-hem.” Jaskier kicked him lightly. “Not to rouse you from your well-earned slumber or anything, but it appears you may have forgotten something.”

Geralt pretended to be asleep, Jaskier kicked him, harder this time. Slowly opening his heavy-lidded eyes, Geralt peered over to Jaskier, his gaze too tired to be withering.

“What?” He ground out.

Jaskier’s eyes went wide with disbelief. Then he gestured down to his lap, still slicked with the aftermath of their tryst.

Geralt sighed in frustration and rolled his eyes. Gathering a the bed cloth in his hands, he tossed it over to Jaskier. “Here.”

Jaskier grimaced. “Ever the gentleman.”

Resuming his position, Geralt closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep but he could feel Jaskier’s eyes on him, desperate to fill the now-vacant space between them with desultory conversation.

Geralt empathised, in part: whether their relationship had the tensile strength withstand sex, and continue unaffected, was unknown. But from his rigid posture, Geralt knew Jaskier was aching to test it, anxious to see if it was still intact.

“Well,” Jaskier began. Geralt braced, cringing internally. “This could make for a legendary ballad.”

“You do and I’ll gut you.”

“Oh, how I enjoy our pillow talk.”

Then Jaskier sank into the plush mattress, drawing the sheets up to his chest, as a faint smile tugged at the corners of Geralt’s mouth. A comfortable silence fell over the room, broken only by the faint sound of kindling, crackling on the hearth, casting the room in a pleasant amber glow, and later by the sound of content snores.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fanfic and if it shows, then pls leave nice advice in the comments ty


End file.
